


disengaged

by orphan_account



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Prompt Fill, with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 16:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17369774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: People speak often on how lucky one is to get their Hanahaki resolved, yet no one asks what there is to do if it ever comes back.





	disengaged

It was after a successful mission in Russia, sent in to guard an omnium until the RSF could mobilize and take over. It was only Genji, Hanzo, McCree and Lucio, with Lena flying the Orca, who were sent, Jack confident enough to keep the team relatively small. Genji and McCree were talking animatedly about how ‘shitty’ Blackwatch’s kitchens were–McCree recalled an instance where there were exactly two cans of green beans in the cupboard and nothing else– when Hanzo felt it. 

At first he gave into the urge to cough, thinking he’d picked up a cold. Inconvenient, and also completely unfair considering he’d had to sacrifice his traditional armor for a coat and pants, but he resolved to simply hunker down once they returned to the Watchpoint and stay off the mission roster. Except–he felt something come up, something dry and bitter, a feeling he was  _ intimately  _ acquainted with after the first time. 

He felt bile rise up in the back of his throat. 

“Hanzo? You okay over there?” He turned to find McCree and Genji staring at him, the latter with his head cocked and the former wearing a worried frown. Hanzo nodded curtly and turned back to his bow where he’d been packing it back into its case. As soon as he heard their conversation continue, albeit their enthusiasm slightly dampened, he discretely brought a hand up to his mouth and allowed the flower to fall out.

_ Gaillardia pulchella _ was colored in brighter versions of those featured on McCree’s beloved serape–a cheery yellow and red like the blood that comes from shallow wounds. Though beautiful, the sight of the petals  _ again _ was enough to make Hanzo’s nostrils flare.

He hastily shoved it in the case with his bow, swallowed, and sat on a nearby bench. He swallowed, thickly, still tasting the flower, closed his eyes and considered his options. 

There was the obvious cause–McCree, in reminiscing with Genji, remembered the state of his body when he was found by Overwatch, before Dr. Ziegler had saved him. Hanzo knew that McCree had been there at Shimada Castle; he’d told him himself when they’d first met, described how the whole room had been bloody and smelled like burnt flesh. At the time Hanzo had recognized it for what it was, a reminder, and a warning. Now, months later, the memory finally serves its purpose. It is logical to conclude that, after he remembered the circumstances in which he and Genji met, McCree would cease having feelings for Hanzo.

He can say it makes sense. He cannot say it doesn’t hurt.

* * * 

Hanzo had always thought it was a bit dramatic, loving someone so much and being so afraid of rejection you’d  _ die _ for it, but nevertheless he had been there, and was seemingly there again. 

He’d taken every pain to hide it the first time, avoided McCree like the plague and then some, took his meals in his rooms and shipped out whenever possible. His case seemed to be proximity-based, in some regard, luckily not triggered by thoughts alone. This time, however, there was more at stake. What might McCree think, should he see the flowers? Would he assume Hanzo was in love with someone else? They’d never disclosed their relationship to the rest of the team, per Hanzo’s selfish request. The thought is unacceptable to him, though McCree has no way of knowing this. 

Hanzo entertains the thought of just  _ asking  _ McCree, briefly, but can’t gather the words. He had always subconsciously assumed there was an expiry date on McCree’s affections, one day he would remember that Genji is his best friend and Hanzo is nothing more than a kinslayer, and it hadn’t bothered him until now, when he can see a physical representation of it. Like milk curdling, or mold growing on bread. He supposes Hanahaki itself  _ is _ akin to mold in some way, a plant-based life form growing on a foundation that’s already rotted.

Nevertheless, he does not bring it up with McCree; rather, he does what he does best and avoids him, this time without the vague leniency he had given himself when he’d first been afflicted with Hanahaki in some pitiful display of hope that perhaps McCree felt the same way. They’d never gotten around to sharing a room due to a mutual need for a space all their own, and for this Hanzo is endlessly grateful. It does not stop him from having to face McCree’s worried and increasingly dejected looks every time he declines his offer to spend the night, but it is better than sleeping with someone you are in love with who no longer feels the same. 

* * * 

“Hey sweetheart, I’ve been meaning to ask–” McCree breaks himself off to scratch at the back of his neck nervously, and Hanzo despises himself. “Are we alright? Did I upset ya or somethin’?” 

“It is nothing,” Hanzo replies, trying his best not to overstep the line of curt and cross into hurtful. He has come to the conclusion that McCree himself does not know he no longer loves Hanzo. It is no problem–Hanzo simply resolves to spend less time around him, as he has been doing, and allow McCree to realize this fact for himself. It does not hurt any less, he still wakes up in the middle of the night clutching a pillow with his mouth full of flowers, but he knows it’s better than unconsciously deluding McCree into thinking he still has feelings for him. McCree is a smart man, and good and kind, but not as insusceptible to manipulation as he likes to think.

“Alright, well,” Hanzo forces himself to look up from where he’s stringing fletching onto an arrow. McCree does not look heartbroken, or on the verge of tears. He looks moderately disappointed, as if he expected this behavior from Hanzo all along, and Hanzo has to swallow aggressively to keep the flowers down. (He hasn’t been this close to McCree in a week. He doesn’t know what will happen if one of them does not leave soon.) “I’m shippin’ out tomorrow, so if you wanna come to my room tonight..” McCree trails off, leaves the invitation open.

Hanzo knows McCree is leaving tomorrow, and this is a good thing. It will give him time to schedule and hopefully  _ have _ the surgery. Surely when McCree gets back he will have realized, and there will not have to be any awkward moments between them. 

“Thank you for the offer, but I have much to do.” This, at least, isn’t a lie, and Hanzo gestures to the hundreds of arrows in piles before him, all awaiting fletching and arrowheads. McCree looks at them. Looks back at Hanzo. Sighs. 

“Well, it was worth a shot. Can I get a goodbye kiss, at least? You’re killin’ me here, darlin’.”

_ No _ , Hanzo wants to say.  _ You are the one that is killing me _ . 

Instead, he stands, reaches up and plants a soft kiss on McCree’s cheek. When McCree leaves a few moments later he gracefully refolds himself on the ground in front of his arrows, politely tells Athena to lock the door, and coughs until he sees stars. 

* * * 

The next morning McCree is gone and there is dried blood on Hanzo’s pillow. He stumbles into the bathroom–state of the art prosthetics don’t work very well if your brain isn’t getting enough oxygen to control them–and finds it on his lip and chin as well. He sighs, explosively, wets a rag and wipes it away, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror

When all traces of blood are gone from his face he dresses quickly and makes his way down to medbay. He does not rush, because then people would stop him and ask if something is wrong, and he cannot afford to waste the time he’d have to spend thinking up a suitable lie.

Dr. Ziegler seems surprised by his presence, and he is reminded that she was the one to put the pieces of his brother’s body back together after Hanzo destroyed him, just as McCree did with his mind, and he  _ really cannot _ do this.

“Agent Shimada,” she says, putting her pen down on top of the paperwork in front of her. He must look distressed because she stands, holds out an arm in support. “Are you alright? You look a bit nauseous - “

  
“I am able, Dr. Ziegler.” She doesn’t seem to buy it but allows him to enter anyway, leads him over to one of the sickbeds and sits him down. “I believe I am afflicted with Hanahaki disease. I would like to schedule surgery for as soon as possible.” He says it in what he hopes doesn’t sound like too much of a rush. 

She frowns at him and pulls over a nearby chair to sit in front of him. “Hanahaki? I wasn’t aware it was even all that common nowadays,” she says this thoughtfully, and Hanzo resists the urge to shrug. He wouldn’t know; he did not visit her about it the first time around, and he had never known anyone else to carry it. It had just been a folk tale told to him and Genji by his mother when they were young, a vague anecdote he carried around in his head until the day he felt  _ that _ tickling in his throat. 

“Are you sure you wish to get it removed? If there is ever another option besides surgery, it is best to go that route, even if you do not believe it will end up in your favor.” She gives him a pointed look at this, and Hanzo wishes so badly to hate her–but she’s right, he  _ knows _ she is, and that makes it even worse. 

He nods, shorty. “I do believe it would be better for both parties,” he says, and it’s the complete and utter truth. She raises an eyebrow but produces a tablet seemingly out of nowhere and begins to enter the information that reads at the foot of the bed Hanzo sits on. 

“Alright,” she stands, and he stands, and she looks him dead in the eye. “If you change your mind, you must tell me immediately. Your surgery is scheduled for next Friday.” Hanzo suppresses a frown at this–that’s an entire week away, and it’s incredibly unlikely McCree’s mission will take more than a few days. Angela’s knowing look tells him this is on purpose, but she says, “I need time to fly in the supplies, Hanzo. This isn’t something we’re equipped for here.” He nods again, and she smiles at him, unexpectedly. “Please take care of yourself in the meantime,” she says. 

“Thank you, Dr. Ziegler.” He exits the medbay feeling sicker than when he arrived.

* * * 

“You are hurting him.” 

Genji’s words are like icicles–they worm his way into his bloodstream, freezing his thoughts and his tongue, pierce his heart with precision like nothing else. Hanzo forces himself to swallow, keep his gaze forward towards the setting sun. 

  
They’re perched atop one of the Watchpoint’s towers,  _ really _ not a good place for a breakdown. 

“I don’t–” Genji doesn’t even let him finish. 

“Yes, you do.” He turns his head, and with his faceplate off Hanzo can see the depth of his disappointment. “You are pushing him away. I cannot fathom why, brother, because I can tell you love him, but you are.” Hanzo keeps his gaze resolutely forward. He had told Genji about the flowers the first time, because there was only so much bottling-up he could do before it actually, literally killed him, and Genji had told him to pursue McCree. Hanzo had done it, despite his misgivings, and look where they are now. 

“I..” he trails off, unsure. If he were to tell Genji that the flowers returned, he must explain to Genji why, and cannot think of a good way to do it that does not sound like he’s pushing blame. “I do not believe McCree has feelings for me,” Hanzo says, his throat dry. “Any longer.” He can  _ feel _ it in his chest, wanting to push the petals up up and out until they’re lodged in place of the words he cannot say, but without McCree’s proximity they will stay where they are until he chokes on them.

Genji snorts. Hanzo is surprised enough to hazard a glance his way. He cannot  _ possibly _ see the humor in this situation, but pushes the flare of indignant anger down to make home among the flowers. He’s done with that,  _ especially _ around Genji. 

“Jesse is a fool for you, brother.” Genji says this with laughter in his voice, like now that he’s realized Hanzo’s just being an idiot rather than intentionally hurtful he can poke and tease again. “I doubt there is much you could do to change that,” he looks at Hanzo not looking at him, and his smile falters. 

“Hanzo,” he says cautiously. A muscle in Hanzo’s jaw tics and exhales through his nose. “You are keeping something from me.”

Hanzo can hear hurt there, and it is entirely possible that Genji slips it in intentionally because he  _ knows  _ how weak his brother is for that tone, but it gets him anyway. That was one of the first things they promised each other when Hanzo could actually speak to him again - no more hiding things. No more hiding  _ emotions _ . (No more hiding flowers the bloom in your chest and have the potential to kill you.)

Hanzo sighs, allows his shoulders to fall just a fraction. “My Hanahaki has returned. Because of this, I know McCree no longer holds feelings for me. He has not yet realized this, and so I am giving him the space he needs so that he may.” He swallows, trains his eyes back on the setting sun. 

They are silent for a long while before Genji speaks. His voice is soft without the robotic quality his mask adds, and it makes a different part of Hanzo’s chest hurt, ache for spring festivals and pink cherry blossoms in bright green hair. 

“It’s based on what you think, brother. Not on the truth as McCree knows it.” Genji reaches out to him, tentatively places a metal hand on his shoulder. Hanzo resists the urge to cling to him like a child. 

“Nevertheless,” he says, “It is better if McCree’s.. passing fancy runs its course.” The hand on his shoulder tightens, and Hanzo can hear Genji’s vents hissing. 

“Do not insult McCree’s intelligence, brother, emotional or otherwise. You would give him credit that he knows his own feelings.” Genji sounds indignant on McCree’s behalf, and Hanzo shakes his head. 

He  _ wouldn’t _ . 

Genji sighs, removes his hand. Part of Hanzo wails at the absence of pressure - he’s grown accustomed to Genji’s new hands, now, and they’re as grounding as they were when they were made of flesh. 

“You must speak with him,” he says, an air of finality in his voice. Hanzo can hear the  _ snick _ of his visor being reattached, and see him stand out of the corner of his eye. “He returns tomorrow, Hanzo. Do not ruin this because of your insecurities.”

  
He deserved that one.    
  
Genji leaves Hanzo on top of the tower with nothing but the gulls and the sea breeze and the godforsaken plant blooming in his chest.

* * * 

McCree returns on Tuesday, three weeks after the flowers make their own dramatic return. Three days before his scheduled surgery. Hanzo would really, _really_ like to not push his luck - he’s hidden the Hanahaki from McCree thus far, he knows he could manage just _three more days_ , but Genji’s words ring harsh in his ears when he considers it, and so Hanzo goes to greet him when the Orca comes to rest in the hangar that night.

He is not wearing his hat, nor his chaps, however the serape is still tucked securely around his neck and his boots still clink out that familiar tune as he disembarks. His very presence is like a warm blanket, and Hanzo  _ aches _ . 

McCree hazards a smile at him when he spots Hanzo lingering near the doors, but waits until the other agents clear out before approaching him. Hanzo feels the telltale tickle - though it’s more of a scratch, now–at the back of his throat, and chokes out a cough against the back of his hand as McCree approaches. There are no petals, but when he pulls his hand away there’s a few specks of blood marring the skin there.

No matter how much he seeks redemption, be it through death or otherwise, he will not allow himself to die for something as trivial as this. 

“Hanzo, darlin’, I missed ya like somethin’ else,” McCree says this so  _ warmly _ , temporarily forgetting to be cautious around him, like Hanzo is not someone he should run away from but  _ towards _ . He must not have realized, then - he’d thought four days would be enough, but - well. There was still the surgery. 

  
“Hello,” Hanzo says. “I need to tell you something.” McCree’s smile falters all at once, and he lets out a nervous chuckle.

  
“Well alright, darlin’, why don’t we just go back to my room and -”

“No,” Hanzo says, cutting him off. He must do this here, now, before he remembers he is a coward. “It is important,” he tacks on, hoping to soften the harshness of his objection. McCree frowns but nods, an obvious sign to continue. Hanzo takes a deep breath.

“I have Hanahaki,” he starts, then adds, “yes, again. I have scheduled surgery for later this week, since I believe it is in both our best interests to cease.. this.” Hanzo gestures between them vaguely, not meeting McCree’s eyes. “I realize you may not have yet come to this conclusion, but given time -” 

“Now hold up–” McCree tries to cut him off here, eyebrows furrowing, but Hanzo talks over him.

“–I am sure you will find we are better off in a strictly professional relationship-” Hanzo makes the mistake of looking at McCree’s face, and the confusion and..  _ hurt? _ in his eyes makes him double over immediately, hacking coughs escaping his mouth, the dry, unpleasant texture of flower petals spilling from his lips. He feels fluid and tastes copper, hears McCree’s sound of alarm, he was doing so  _ well _ -

McCree gently pushes him down onto a stack of crates behind him, rubs his back and makes soothing noises until the shudders stop, and Hanzo cannot fathom why McCree is even still  _ here _ . He’d given him an out, clear as day–and yet McCree had not taken it. 

“Now,” he says gently, not removing his arm from where it’s draped across Hanzo’s shoulders, rubbing circles into his arm. “I don’t know what this is all about, but your love  _ ain’t  _ unrequited, Hanzo, fuck.” Hanzo shakes his head, trying to find realism in the relief that threatens to engulf him and McCree flicks him with his metal fingers. 

“Hey now, none of that. I don’t know what the fuck made you think I don’t love you, but it’s a damn lie. Those  _ flowers _ are some shitty prank yer own brain’s playin’ on you, Hanzo, and I ain’t here for that.” Hanzo finds himself leaning into McCree’s touch, into his warmth, knows he really shouldn’t because McCree is still going to wake up and  _ realize _ one day, and that when he does it’s going to hurt a hell of a lot more than a couple of flower petals do coming up. 

McCree senses Hanzo’s hesitation in the tension of his shoulders but doesn’t pull away - does the opposite, in fact, scoots closer until he’s tucking Hanzo into his side. “What do I gotta do to prove that I love you?”

Hanzo moves away, shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to -  _ McCree _ ,” he cuts himself off exasperatedly when McCree snakes a hand around his back again and pulls him flush against his side. 

“How about this, then,” McCree says, pitched low enough to make Hanzo shudder. “I just tell ya. Every damn day, whenever you look like you need to hear it. How about that?” Hanzo says nothing. 

He says nothing for five minutes. Then, “Alright.”

(And McCree does say it–that night when they go to bed, in the  _ same _ bed, when he wakes him up the next morning with a kiss, when he opens him up late at night and fucks him so soft and sweet Hanzo feels tears prick the corner of his eyes, when he gets back from a mission - or vice versa - before he falls straight into bed, when Hanzo wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and an unbearable need to wash the blood off his hands  _ or vice versa _ .    
  
Hanzo takes comfort in the fact that he doesn’t have to see another  _ Gaillardia pulchella  _ for as long as he lives.)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm almost positive this is a prompt fill but this is a weird completed fic i found in my drive from early 2018 so i'm not sure where the prompt itself is.


End file.
